Shores of England
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: AU. 17th Century. Captain Arthur Kirkland was far from the shores of England. Shipwrecked, cold and hungry, and wondering if he would ever see the lights of London again: "It's my fault," he knew. "It was my pride. And now we're all going to die." On his knees in the snow he looked up, and came face-to-face with—a boy? "It's okay," said the boy. "I'm not going to let you die."


**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers **– **Hidekaz Himaruya**

**SHORES OF ENGLAND**

**WARNING:**This story is intended for a mature audience and contains scenes that some readers may find offensive. If you are underage or easily offended, I discourage you from continuing. However, if you are 16+ I bid you welcome and enjoy! Thank-you for your attention :)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Please excuse the incredibly historically-inaccurate use of modern language (insofar as dialogue and description), as well as my taking liberties with some character relationships.

ALWAYS practice safe sex.

**CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):**

ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland

CANADA — Mathew

FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi

* * *

**CARBONEAR**

**17th CENTURY**

Captain Arthur Kirkland was far from the shores of England.

They had shipped aboard the _Maryanne_ to find a better life, following the French route across the vast Atlantic Ocean. It was winter, freezing cold, and—blown off-course—the ship landed too far North. She pitched and rocked on the waves, groaning as the current pulled her inland. The crew shivered and prayed, clutching the gun-whales; Arthur shouted—but too late. The _Maryanne_ broke upon the ice and capsized. Arthur gasped, climbing from the wreckage with the surviving members of his crew; he pulled himself from the water onto the ice, shaking violently. He had never felt so cold in his entire life. They lost six seamen to hypothermia overnight, and two more of frostbite. When Arthur noticed the black-cold discolouring the tip of his pinky, he took a fish-knife and sliced it off. Bravely, he led his crew farther inland to find shelter, hugging his fur-lined cloak tightly. Trudging through the thigh-high snow drifts; huddled beside a weak fire, cold and hungry, Arthur wondered if he would ever see the lights of London again.

* * *

He was far from the shores of England, scouting the sleeping landscape. Hands raw and fair face blistered, he climbed into the sharp branches of a pine tree, as a lookout. Above the treetops the wind cut like a knife. His forest-green eyes searched his surroundings, desperately seeking shelter. His crew were dropping like flies from illness, hunger, and the bone-chilling cold. Arthur's body had gone numb; he couldn't recall the last time he felt warm. And it was _his_ fault.

_I steered us into this_, he thought, clenching his fists. _It was my pride_. _I didn't want to follow France_— _and now we're all going to die_.

Arthur lost his footing as he was climbing down and fell, slicing his hand on a broken branch. He landed with an audible _thump_ in the snow. "_Fuck_!" he cursed, crawling to his feet. On his knees he came face-to-face with— _a boy_? He blinked in shock, then shouted: "Ay— wait! Come back!"

Plowing through the snow, Arthur chased the boy's quickly retreating back, tearing through the forest as he struggled to keep-pace. _I'm not letting you get away_, he thought, red-faced and panting. _He must live somewhere_, _he must have a family_. The boy was proof that people lived here; people who might help his crew. "WAIT!" he shouted.

The boy stopped in an open field. A strong wind blew a gust of snow-crystals over him, but he didn't flinch. It tossed his pale-blonde curls and tugged his clothes—_he should be freezing_, Arthur eyed his lightweight attire. Much of the boy's snow-white skin was exposed, but perfectly unblemished. He wasn't nearly as young as Arthur had initially thought: sixteen, or maybe seventeen-years-old. He watched the Englishman through big, vigilant violet eyes, and, raising his hands in warning, said: "Stop—"

Arthur's boots landed on the snow-covered ice and slipped. He hit the ice hard and heard a sickening crack. It spider-webbed beneath the snow, and, before he could react, Arthur fell into the cold water below.

"You shouldn't have followed me," said the youth, racing forward. He slid onto his stomach and grabbed Arthur's hand, which was clawing desperately at the ice. "Stop flailing!" he ordered, clenching Arthur's forearm. With unexpected strength he pulled the sopping Englishman from the water and half-carried him to the shore; the youth's body-heat was pale, but _very _inviting. "—going to get yourself killed," he was muttering.

"I-I-I-I need your h-h-help," Arthur shivered.

The youth looked down at him in sympathy. "Yes, I know—"

"N-n-not just m-me. My m-m-men," he tilted his head. "They'll d-d-die. Tell your p-people to h-help them."

"My people?" He cocked his head curiously, then looked down. Lifting Arthur up, supporting him around the waist, he said: "I don't have anyone. It's always just been me."

* * *

Arthur's brain felt numb, disoriented. He tried to open his eyes, but failed; it seemed like such an effort. His body was shivering, pricked with goosebumps—a good sign? he didn't know; he couldn't remember. _Where am I_? he wondered. Someone laid beside him, hugging him close in sleep, body flushed with health and heat; the weight felt good against Arthur's side, reassuring him. _Am I going to die_? he thought, detached. Everything was foggy—surreal. It felt like the inside of a fever-dream: he could smell a warm brazier, pine-needles, and maple-leafs; he could feel the comfort of a fire's bright glow; he could hear the wind howling somewhere distant._ Is this what dying feels like_? _It's not so bad_.

* * *

Arthur slept for weeks, lying in a soft bed beside a big, crackling hearth-fire. Half-starved and disoriented, he groaned as his body thawed, aching painfully; he felt dizzy and feverish. In the flickering firelight the pale-faced youth nursed him, gentle but insistent, ignoring Arthur's weak plea: "_Just let me die_.

"I want to see the sun," he rambled mournfully, eyelids flickering restlessly. "It's so dark here. Not like home— My England. England is grey. But this is dark, winter-dark."

"Quiet," said the youth, calming him. His hand felt smooth and cool on Arthur's skin; his touch was gentle as he wiped the Englishman's sweaty brow. "It's okay. It won't be dark forever. The snows will melt and then you'll see how beautiful it really is here. I'm not going to let you die."

"I want— to go home," Arthur whimpered, like a tearful child. "I want— England."

* * *

It was bright when Arthur finally opened his eyes, tired but fully conscious. "Is it— spring?"

"Not yet," said the youth. "But the days are starting to grow longer."

Arthur turned his head and looked at the pale-faced youth. He was sitting on a wide window-ledge across the small room, leg dangling down, and reading a book—Arthur's book. The Englishman frowned. "Is that my copy of _The Canterbury Tales_?" he asked, trying to sit. The youth shrugged. Closing the book, he walked over and poured Arthur a cup of water. "You don't know? Can you not read?" he asked.

"I can _sort of _read in French," he said evasively, handing Arthur the cup. "I like the illustrations in your book. You're from England, aren't you? You talk in your sleep," he added in explanation. "Where is that? Is it far away?"

Arthur nodded, touching water to his dry lips. "Yes, _very_ far. I'm Arthur Kirkland, by the way. I was, _am_, the captain of— My crew!" he suddenly remembered, panicking. "Where is my crew, are they—?" The youth bit his lip sympathetically. "They're all dead," Arthur realized, pursing his lips. "I led them to their deaths."

"I'm sorry," said the youth. "I did go back for them, but—" Meekly, he shrugged. "It's a peaceful death."

"_Freezing to death_ is peaceful?" Arthur shot. He felt instantly guilty; the youth's violet eyes looked sad. "I'm sorry," he said. "I haven't thanked you for saving my life; I would have drowned, or froze, or starved without you. You took care of me, you've _been_ taking care of me— for how long?"

"A month," he said. He was standing awkwardly beside the single-bed, wearing his shirtsleeves at his elbows. His chin-long curls looked soft in the midmorning sun that streamed in through the window; he was an attractive boy, with fair features and pretty, long-lashed eyes. "Why do you have a rose tattooed to your chest?" he asked suddenly, tapping his own angular collarbone in indication.

Arthur paused, momentarily taken off-guard. "The rose is a symbol of England, my home," he said proudly.

"I've seen a lot of pirate tattoos," he said, teasing, "but I didn't think a rose was that _intimidating_."

"I'm not a pirate. I'm a good, law-abiding, respectful sailor, who was commissioned by the Royal— _what are you laughing at_?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry," the youth waved off, still smiling. "I didn't mean to offend you. I quite like your rose, honest."

Arthur felt suddenly flushed, but he didn't know why. To distract himself from the youth's sweet smile—those pretty eyes—he emptied the cup. "You never told me your name," he said, changing the subject.

"No, I didn't," he replied. "It's because"—he turned around in embarrassment—"I don't have one."

"_What_?" If Arthur had been shocked before, it was small in comparison. "How can you not have a name?"

The youth shrugged, fiddling absently with an errant curl. "Who would have given me one? I don't have a family, remember? Some of the Natives call me Canada, but it's not a name like yours is. I like your name," he said, eyeing the Englishman shyly. "It sounds so noble. Would you—" he paused, blushing "—give me a name like yours?"

"I— yes, I suppose I could." Arthur felt his heart jump when the youth's face lit up, smiling in delight. He did not have children, but naming someone felt like a _very_ intimate thing. "Come here, let me look at you," he gestured. Eagerly, the youth obeyed. He sat down on the bed's edge and waited, staring keenly at Arthur. "What about _Mathew_? It's a good English name. A noble name."

"Mathew," he tasted it. "Yes, I like it very much."

* * *

CRACK. "Why did you come here?" Mathew asked, swinging an ax. It sliced cleanly through a thick stump, severing it into two, smaller pieces. "What were you looking for?" CRACK.

"Fortune, mostly," Arthur replied. Dressed in a heavy, waterproof coat and boots, leather gloves, and a toque, he collected the firewood Mathew was cutting. It had been a week since he awoke, and, despite the cold, he was feeling surprisingly spry. "I was commissioned by his Royal Majesty, King James I—the Sovereign of England—to explore the potential of this land, its wealth and resources. My crew were fishermen mostly."

"Fish?" Mathew's lip quirked, teasing. "You came all the way across the ocean for _fish_?" CRACK.

"Not _just_ fish," Arthur defended himself. "We're sailors, explorers. It's our responsibility to make ready this land for settlers, to build mills and fisheries; to work the land, tame it so that it's less hostile."

"You think it's hostile?" CRACK. Arthur flinched, eyeing the sharp ax-blade. "Is your England so civilized?"

"Well, yes," said Arthur. Stealing the opportunity to inform the ignorant boy, he lectured: "England is quite cultured. We have great cities, including our capital, and big shipyards; we have industry and religion and a strong sense of self; very good law-enforcement and international relations," he equivocated (Mathew didn't need to know about the rampant unrest, famine, or war). "The class system ensures that everyone knows his or her place in society."

Mathew cocked an eyebrow. "That sounds awful." CRACK. "Just how many people are there in England that you need to herd them like livestock?"

"No— I think you're misunderstanding."

"Am I?" CRACK. "You have designated positions for the entire population, and you have things like _culture_ to remind everyone of their status— like people who can read versus those who can't. And, just in case anyone forgets their place, you have _law-enforcement_ ruled by the _Sovereign_ to remind them. Why is he so important anyway, this king? Is he a great warrior? Is he wise? Or is he just a man like everyone else?"

Arthur hesitated, eyeing the youth thoughtfully. "You see the world in a very simplistic way, Mathew. I envy your innocence."

Mathew stopped. "Is that an insult?"

Arthur shook his head: "No," he realized. "It's not."

* * *

A howling gale thundered against the walls, making Arthur shiver. He was sitting by the fireside, watching the flames flicker weakly. Mathew handed him a cup of herbal tea; it wasn't English tea, but at least it was hot. He touched the Englishman's hand, specifically his pinky. "You were smart to cut the black-cold out," he said. "It looks completely healed now, if a little disfigured." He smiled and sat down beside Arthur, holding his knees as he stared into the fire.

Arthur pulled a blanket more tightly around himself. "Doesn't it bother you, this howling wind?"

"No, not really. I guess I'm too desensitized to it."

"But it must be lonely here?" Arthur guessed. Then, to hide his embarrassment, he added: "And cold."

Without warning Mathew shuffled closer to Arthur until he was sitting right beside him on the boarded floor, their hips pressed together. He pulled open Arthur's blanket and wrapped it around himself, cocooning them both inside. Then he leaned against Arthur's side, resting his head on the Englishman's shoulder, and said: "It was."

The wind howled, blowing snow against the walls, insulating it, and the fire's dancing flames cast shadows in the otherwise dark room. Arthur held his cup two-handed, acutely aware of Mathew's body beside him. It had been nearly three months since the boy had pulled him from the water and brought him to this place, isolated from the world; three months since the boy's innocence had touched Arthur's sentimentality, reminding him of something he had long ago forgotten. _There was a time when I was just like him—wild_, he thought nostalgically, _free and careless_, _innocent_. But Arthur had grown-up fast, not by choice—where he had come from it was grow-up fast or die. Discretely, he looked down at Mathew's head, resting comfortably on his shoulder, and smiled. It had been a long time since Captain Kirkland had felt so peaceful, without worries or responsibilities; without enemies. Mathew might've been the one who lived in the cold, but it was Arthur's heart that had needed thawing.

It was a long time before either of them spoke. Softly, Mathew said: "When the snows melt, will you leave?"

"Yes," Arthur answered. It was hard to say what he wasn't entirely sure he was feeling; hard to explain what he, himself, didn't yet understand, but he knew:"Somehow I have to go home. I don't belong here. But Mathew," he said, swallowing nervously—hopefully? "You could come with me." Slowly, almost timidly, he reached around Mathew and drew him closer, holding him. The boy sighed, and Arthur's heart skipped a beat. He didn't realize just how much he wanted Mathew to say _yes_, until he said:

"No. I can't." In apology he leaned up and pressed a chaste kiss to Arthur's lips. "Just like you belong there, I belong here. I can't leave."

"Then I'll come back," Arthur promised.

Mathew smiled sadly. "Once, maybe twice you'll come back. Then someday something will keep you away; the weather, or your king, or someone else you've made a promise to, and you'll say: _next year_ and _next year_. And I'll wait and watch for your ship to return, but it never will. And maybe you'll feel guilty for a little while, but your life will go on and eventually you'll forget about the boy in the Newfoundland so far away."

Arthur sighed. "You're right," he admitted, feeling ashamed. Tenderly he touched Mathew's cheek, lifting his chin for a not-so-chaste kiss. "About everything except: I'll _never_ forget you."

* * *

_Don't think about tomorrow; just think about tonight_—

Arthur moved his hungry lips down Mathew's pale, slender body, sucking on the sweet skin. The boy gasped, twisting his fingers into Arthur's blonde hair, pulling him closer; he leaned back against the blanketed floor, arching his shoulders. Arthur spread Mathew's naked legs and, despite the boy's fervent protest, bowed his head. "_O-oh— Ah-rthur_—" Arthur clenched his hips, working his slick tongue around Mathew's— "_a-hah_,_ mm— o-oh— y-yes_!" Mathew squeezed his eyes shut, cheeks flushed; a tear fell from his eye. He dug his blunt fingernails into Arthur's strong back; he could feel the muscles moving beneath his hot skin. "_Ah-rthur_, _I-I-I— Ah_!"

Arthur licked his lips. "Alright, love?" he smiled, raising his head. He had a predatory look in his green eyes. He lifted Mathew's leg over his shoulder and kissed the inside of his thigh.

"Yes," said Mathew breathlessly. "I'm alright— go ahead."

Arthur rocked Mathew's body, pushing gently at first, but becoming more aggressive as the tension mounted. He breathed hard, chest rising and falling fast as his body pulsed, moving rhythmically; experienced. He held Mathew firmly, clenching his teeth to keep from growling. "_Matt—_" he panted. His cock swelled inside the boy's hot, tight body, and then released in climax. Arthur cried-out: "_Ah_!" And then fell sideways, onto his back.

"I do _hah_ love you _hah_ Matthew," he said, breathing hard. "I'm _hah_ going to_ hah _miss you."

He reached for Mathew, wanting to touch him. Obediently Mathew rolled over, hugging the Englishman's side. "I know," he whispered, closing his eyes. "I'll miss you too."

But both of them knew what the other was thinking; what neither wanted to say: _It doesn't change anything_.

* * *

By early-May the spring-snows had thawed enough to sail. Mathew took Arthur down South to the mainland, where a crew of French fur-traders stayed for the winter. The captain, a boisterous young man called Francis Bonnefoi, would be returning to Europe soon, his ships laden with riches from the Newfoundland. As long as Arthur didn't displease the proud Frenchman—"try not to insult his heritage," Mathew suggested knowingly—he would likely agree to take the Englishman back across the Atlantic.

"I can see the village, it's— what's wrong?" Arthur asked, realizing that Mathew had stopped walking. The youth stood on a small rise between two towering pine trees, glistening with long, melting icicles, but he didn't move to come closer. The fur-traders' village was only a few kilometers East; they could see the smoke. But Mathew stayed concealed by the trees; in the wild. "Why have you stopped?"

Mathew stared at him. "This is as far as I go," he said quietly.

Arthur's stomach clenched; his heart beat faster. He had always known he was going home; he _wanted_ to go home, but, now that it was actually happening: _It's too soon._ He had spent the whole winter with young Mathew, but it wasn't enough; he didn't want to leave the boy. _Is this love_? he wondered, feeling hurt. He glanced at the village, then back at the pale-faced boy. And he said: "I'll take the next ship, there'll be another—"

But Mathew shook his head. "Do you think it'll be any easier to leave in a few month's time?" He sighed. "It's time for you to go home, Arthur."

Arthur went to him. He took him into his arms and squeezed. He kissed Mathew's cheeks, then his jaw, then his lips. He slipped his tongue between the boy's lips and kissed him longingly, hot and deep. It was desperate; a little aggressive. He didn't want to let go—but he did. He took Mathew's face between his hands and said once more: "Come with me." It wasn't supposed to sound like an order, but it did. So he added: "Please?" There were tears in Mathew's violet eyes, and it hurt him. _I don't want to feel like this_, he thought, angry at himself for feeling it; angry at Mathew for being the reason why, _like I'm losing something important_. Quietly, he said: "I don't want to lose you."

Mathew touched the rose tattoo on Arthur's chest. "England is waiting for you." He kissed Arthur for the last time, and said: "I'll _always_ be here."

* * *

Arthur Kirkland stepped off the gangplank onto the shores of England, his home. He breathed in the cool, grey breeze, lifting his face to the sky; raindrops slid over his cheeks. "England," he sighed, smiling sadly. _I missed you_.

But now he missed the ice and the cold; the hostility of the wild; the wind that cut like a knife. He missed watching Mathew chop firewood; missed sitting with him by the hearth, reading to him from _The Canterbury Tales_; missed sleeping next to him in bed, holding him. Missed his voice, his maple-sweet scent, the touch of his lips, kissing Arthur's rose tattoo. The Atlantic crossing had taken two months, but time hadn't healed the hurt in his heart. Even that bigheaded French captain had noticed that something was wrong with the Englishman.

Standing on the quarterdeck, he had squeezed Arthur's shoulder companionably, and said: "It's a beautiful country, isn't it? There's nowhere else like it in the world. It's hard to leave."

And Arthur said: "Yes. It is."

"Lord Kirkland, sir," said a young messenger, touching his cap respectfully. He handed Arthur a letter, sealed with red wax. "A letter from a representative of His Majesty, King James I. On behalf of king and country, the cabinet congratulates you, sir, and are relieved to find you alive and well. Welcome home."

"Yes. Thank-you," said Arthur, feeling hollow. "It's good to be home."


End file.
